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Updated: July 29, 2025
"Ah, you'd like to know now, wouldn't you?" "Of course I would. Tell me. It would make me very happy." "It really would?" "You know it would." "But why?" "It would." "But you couldn't care for the poetry, unless you cared for the poet?" "Oh, I don't know. Poetry's poetry, isn't it, whoever makes it? But what if I did care a little for the poet?" "Do you mean you do, Angel?"
I'm not sayin' a word against poetry. I wouldn't take ten thousand dollars right now for that poem of Edith's; and poetry's all right enough in its place but you leave it to the girls. A man's got to do a man's work in this world!" He seated himself in a chair at his son's side and, leaning over, tapped Bibbs confidentially on the knee.
I have it!" and Pierre turned triumphantly to Father Holland. "The Lord be praised that poetry's free, Or you'd bottle it up like a saint's thumb-bone, That beauty's beauty for eyes that see Without regard to a priestly gown " "Hold on," interrupted Father Holland. "Hold on, Pierre!" "'Your double-quick Peg Has a limp of one leg! "'Bone' and 'gown' don't fit, Mr. Rhymster." "Upon my honor!
'That's where poetry's so fine; it tells us what is not, and what's not only better than what is, but much more like the truth, "cannot choose but love," it might want not to, but it can't help it. She was silent again, then all at once she started and got up. 'Come along. Meidanov's indoors with mamma, he brought me his poem, but I deserted him.
'Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin'-day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some of them low fellows; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin agin, Sammy. Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and read as follows: "Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned " 'That ain't proper, said Mr.
In a week I noticed her going by on the arm of a mill-hand. And, broke again, I wrote to my grandmother that I must have fifty dollars to get back to school on. And, somehow, she scraped it together and sent it to me. My first impulse was to be ashamed of myself and start to return it. Then I kept it. For, after all, it was for poetry's sake.
She's got substantialer things to worry over, I tell you. Poetry's always pitying the poor mariner on account of his perils at sea; better a blamed sight pity him for the nights he can't sleep for thinking of how he had to leave his wife in her very birth pains, lonesome and friendless, in the thick of disease and trouble and death.
I propose to state briefly what I understand by "Poetry for poetry's sake," and then, after guarding against one or two misapprehensions of the formula, to consider more fully a single problem connected with it. And I must premise, without attempting to justify them, certain explanations. We are to consider poetry in its essence, and apart from the flaws which in most poems accompany their poetry.
Albert, Anna, Alfred, Albinus, Anton, Alma and Alvilda let me see, yes, that's the lot. None of them can say they've not been treated fairly. Father was all for A at that time; they were all to rhyme with A. Poetry's always come so easy to him." She looked admiringly at her husband. Kalle blinked his eyes in bashfulness.
"Happy he who was born in former times; there was then many a land still undiscovered, on which poetry's rich gold lay like the ore that shines forth from the earth's surface."
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